


All Yes, Here

by nowherenew



Series: Rarepair Hell: Arthur Morgan/Paladin Danse Edition [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4, Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: (but respectfully. sort of), Anal Sex, Humiliation, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Revenge Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Yearning, alcohol (mentioned), extreme yearning tbh, indignant simp takes earnest simp for a ride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29162370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowherenew/pseuds/nowherenew
Summary: “My name is Beau. Beau Gray, of the Gray family. We’ve been seeing so many new folks in town recently; are you with those new deputies?” Sweeping his palm out to vaguely gesture at Victor’s clothing, he adds, “You have a similar, um, ruggedness of countenance to Arthur. Deputy Morgan, that is. Are the two of you familiar?”“Arthur”?This high-falutin’ nuisance is on a first-name basis with Arthur Morgan?Christ above. God damnit. Fuck.-In which a scorned Danse decides to steal Arthur's boy toy because he is very, very sad but is also a fool
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Paladin Danse (mentioned), Beau Gray/Arthur Morgan (mentioned), Beau Gray/Paladin Danse, Beau Gray/Penelope Braithwaite (mentioned)
Series: Rarepair Hell: Arthur Morgan/Paladin Danse Edition [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140461
Comments: 14
Kudos: 4





	All Yes, Here

**Author's Note:**

> I am writing this series out of order, so apologies in advance

For weeks, Arthur has been giving. Giving Danse his mouth, his hands, his attention, but the whole time, he’s never let Victor touch him back, hasn’t even let him see his cock. It’s awful, not being allowed to give in return. Feels like garbage. Arthur is always clothed enough to stay shuttered away, pushes Danse until he is looking at walls or ceilings or the massive sky above.

It’s somewhere between unfair and cruel.

Honestly, it has been tearing at Victor whether it is worse or better that Arthur does not humiliate him for asking (begging, really) to see and touch and give. Never rejects him outright. Always a casual “not this time,” or a “maybe tomorrow.”

Again and again, it is a possibility, but it never gets closer to happening. Every time, Danse can feel him react, can tell he likes it, hard cock against his thighs, rushed breaths against his skin. And still, Arthur keeps the younger man waiting, hoping.

That’s the most cruel part of it all. Being strung along. And he keeps falling for it, too. Willingly wrapped around fingers that he will in all likelihood never be permitted to hold. At least Arthur hasn’t outed him. That is more than Danse can say for his last (and only, until Arthur) tryst.

And there he goes again, making excuses for Arthur fucking Morgan, who gives him the time of day but only half, which is worse than none at all. It’s torture, and Danse has decided it has to stop.

For three days now, Arthur has been gone on a hunting trip. Early one morning, he left Clemens Point without an explanation—and though he does not owe Danse a goodbye, the choice to forego one said plenty about the regard Arthur has for him. Or, more appropriately, the abject lack of regard.

There are few things more shattering than coming to see how little you mean to someone.

Naturally, then, as the wisdom of the history of man dictates, a man shattered is a man pre-drunk. It would hardly do to question such well-beaten paths. Surely, it will do Victor more good than harm to leave behind irrelevant parts of his consciousness for a few hours. Or a little more. So, rather than taking the Arthur Morgan method of leaving without so much as a word, he invited Javier along. They still like their pet O’Driscoll to have a bit of supervision, after all.

Hardly ten minutes after they arrived at Rhodes Parlour House, Javier found himself properly distracted by his self-set goal of wooing all the women in sight. Some babysitter he is, then. It makes no difference to Danse, who buys himself as much liquor as he estimates will sterilize this particular type of open wound.

A bottle of bourbon is a good start.

Apparently, the people of Rhodes are not so courteous and mannered as they prefer to fashion themselves, because Victor gets all of fifteen minutes to wallow in solitude before being interrupted. A young man with far too smooth a face trots up to the corner table that had become Danse’s private perch. Unprompted, he sits in the opposite chair, smiling like he thinks he’s welcome.

“Hello there, friend!” The pleasantness is nearly nauseating. Can folk not leave a miserable man alone? What about a dark corner and a scowl looks like an invitation? No time is too soon to leave this town, if Victor had any say in the matter. People just don’t act right down here. In all sorts of ways. In a hovel of nostalgic greyback Confederates, though, not much else can be expected.

Maybe what the man needs in order to leave Victor alone is a healthy dose of hostility. “Don’t recall any friendship between us, stranger. Do you?” A heavy sigh and a frown should be enough to send the man back from whence he came. Right?

“Well, no, not as of now, but here’s hoping,” chirps the gentleman—and he does look like one; his shirt is unwrinkled, the velvet on his vest still crisp, well-washed hair. Even smells good. Good enough to notice over the bourbon, which is interesting. Not interesting enough for Danse to quit trying to reinstate his solitude, though.

“Listen, Mister Hopeful, why don’t you run on along and make new friends somewhere else? Anywhere else, even. You follow? Get what I’m—”

In what would be a straight line to a hard time with a man less patient than Danse, the well-dressed buffoon holds up a hand to cut him off. “But we’ve never met, you and I! My name is Beau. Beau Gray, of the Gray family. We’ve been seeing so many new folks in town recently; are you with those new deputies?” Sweeping his palm out to vaguely gesture at Victor’s clothing, he adds, “You have a similar, um, ruggedness of countenance to Arthur. Deputy Morgan, that is. Are the two of you familiar?”

It’s amazing how an educated man thinks he can dress up a statement quite so rude and pass it off as polite to a lowly drifter such as Danse. With all that earnestness dripping from the stranger’s face, though, it seems he doesn’t even know he’s acting like a parody of his own damn self.

Wait.

“Arthur”?

This high-falutin’ nuisance is on a first-name basis with Arthur Morgan?

Christ above. God damnit. Fuck.

Now that this “Beau Gray” matters, Danse takes a second look at him. Clean-shaven, or maybe he doesn’t grow a beard at all. Eyes bright and dumb like only young men of repute can afford to have. That fool smile that just will not falter. Better teeth than Victor has seen on most men. Son of a bitch has arms that would probably fail to lift a full wheelbarrow. He’s probably never had to shovel shit—or anything, for that matter—in his damn life.

And he smells nice.

It’s infuriating. First-name fucking basis. Presumptuousness is an unattractive quality in a man, and Danse has not made a habit of jumping to conclusions in his life, but it’s not too far a leap to assume there’s been some... involvement. The Gray boy has Arthur’s name in his mouth heavy and happy, nothing short of glittering reverence in his eyes, and a bit too much giddy energy for it all to be directed at some positive role model or casual acquaintance.

Someone like Beau Gray could really remind a person like Arthur Morgan of the wealthy woman who broke his heart, couldn’t he?

“Well,” begins Danse, tilting his glass forward to roll the base around on the wood, “any friend of Arthur’s is a friend of mine, then, Beau Gray. Why don’t we share a drink?” Patiently, he waits for Beau to get himself a glass from the bar, but it becomes clear after a few moments of suffering through that blank, pleasant smile that the Gray boy is unfamiliar with the concept of self-service.

Since he’s far too busy being furious about the boy’s involvement with Arthur, the obliviousness to such basic tasks does not incite anger, but pity. Fancy fool.

“Gotta go get a glass, Gray.”

Beau chimes a jaunty “oh!” and nods. He comes back a steep handful of seconds later, unscathed from his treacherous and trying journey through the gauntlet of doing something all on his own. Thank the heavens for that, right?

“To what shall we drink—oh, a moment!” Every syllable is a celebration for this man; Danse has never heard such excitement packed into every goddamn word. “Sir, I’ve still yet to learn your name! Being especially that you are a friend of Arthur’s, I should like to know with whom I am raising a glass.”

Danse snorts. “That’s a lot of chatter for a three-word question. Victor Danse. The finest of pleasures, Mister Gray.” Once he’s poured them each a drink, he lifts his own glass.

This, at least, the young gentleman knows how to do. “Please, call me Beau,” he smiles. “To new friends, then!”

It would be a quick trip to the gallows if Danse were to try to fuck a rich boy before being certain of his interest. Poor thing is an open book, though, and desperate enough that Victor hopes his own face didn’t have that same look when Arthur tested the waters with him. He’d be lying if he said it isn’t an attractive sight on the well-fed Gray, but Victor would rather not picture it on himself.

The first time Danse bumps their knees together, Beau thinks it was an accident, but his ears go pinker and his words falter. Pretty, fancy words, all plucked from whatever book he had been raving about, with a hint of original thoughts sprinkled here and there. And they fall to stutters from an inch of contact. The self-styled philosopher moves his leg away to be polite, but the lingering would fool only the most witless of men.

Progress.

The second time, the Gray boy goes quiet, stares, and then puts his weight against Victor’s leg. Swallows, clears his throat, and then asks in a lower pitch whether Danse remembers what he had been saying the minute before. “Not really,” the outlaw replies. Beau is welcome to imagine a “sorry” if he wants.

The third time is all Beau’s; the boy walks his foot forward slow and careful over the course of who knows how long he thinks is appropriate (no doubt harboring the piteous delusion that two deviants can even graze the edges of decency) until he rests the tip of his boot atop Victor’s.

When their feet touch, Beau sees Danse—his brand new friend, allegedly—smile for the first time, and that alone sends the Gray’s dimples to new depths, broadening his smile to show more of those pretty, pretty teeth. Makes it hard to stay angry, frankly. It’s difficult to malign a young man who responds with such merriment to earning another’s attention.

Not many things are certain in this life, but Beau Gray wanting to get fucked sideways by a dirty outlaw is one of those universal truths.

And what good is Danse if he can’t give a poor little rich boy what he wants?

——

“Just on the right here,” Beau calls, too loud for a man about to commit a capital offense.

“You are yelling directly into my ear.”

“Oh!” The arms around Danse’s waist tighten for a moment, then fall calm. “Apologies. On the right.”

“Heard you the first time,” grumbles Victor. The kid’s lucky he’s wealthy, because he’s so oblivious that it wouldn’t be a sure thing for him to get by on his looks.

“Oh.” Such a deflated tone. It’s not almost sad, it really is sad. For a fop who’s sleeping with Arthur Morgan, Beau is irritatingly difficult to despise.

As though worried he will further annoy Danse by speaking (not an unreasonable fear), Beau points to the remains of a chapel by the edge of the battlefield. Evidently, he and his fiance—Arthur, too, most likely—don’t mind fucking amidst the legacy of death.

Victor can’t bring himself to care, either. He’s not so delusional as to believe he’s not already on the devil’s roster. What’s a little more depravity in the mix?

When they dismount, Beau offers Melvin a carrot—does he just carry them around?—and has the audacity to praise Danse’s horse for a job well done. It’s endearing, and that’s horrifying. The boy could probably spend all night complimenting the horse and forget all about the trouble they’re going to, with how much fun he’s having meeting a new steed. What a peculiar young man. Probably going to be a bit of a strange experience to demolish him.

Strange, but almost certainly gratifying, and that’s the main point. So, peeling Beau away from the stallion by his elbow, Danse ushers him into the desiccated husk of a holy place.

Against a chipped stone wall, the young man becomes a creature made more of breath than solid flesh, and Victor wonders how thin he can stretch Beau Gray before he snaps. Any good man of science knows that experimentation is the only path to truth, or whatever Hosea told him about crushing leaves and eating them.

The kid responds very well to direction. “Take your vest off,” Victor says, and it is done. “Open your shirt for me.” That, too, is done, and Danse could swear he saw something surge in Beau’s eyes on those last two words. “Now mine.”

Eagerness is no substitute for a practiced hand when it comes to removing bandoliers, gun belts, and all the other equipment that makes killing into a career. So, when Beau needs help, the outlaw provides it. Intimacy threatens to seep into the pores of their fingers when they touch hands, but Danse does not shrink away. Wants to, but can’t. Efficiency is his escape route if he wants it, but he doesn’t mind letting Beau waste time to confusion.

Piles of fabric and leather and little metal killing machines get bigger until the heavy and cloying air of Lemoyne, and all its mosquitos and swamp-mist, is more bearable. There is a mound of well-worn, stained clothes with sweat-stench and dark spots a bit more russet than mud. Beside it, innocuous and obliviousness to its own contradiction, clean (albeit now crumpled) and finely-made items that have seen not one day of work.

Beau does sweat, though. Quite a lot. Almost like he was painted to shine at night. It smells good and it’s strongest under his chin. So is his breath when Danse shoves his nose into the fair skin on his Adam’s apple.

“Hello,” he says, and Danse bites him until he is sure that line of thought has been discontinued. Greeting a half-naked man spreading spit on his throat with a “hello”? How has this poor thing survived twenty years on this Earth? With sexual prowess like that, it’s no surprise that his fiance only got to know him through letters and the very, very occasional meeting.

“Shut the hell up, Gray.” The words are hissed like he means it, but Victor doesn’t think he would mind if they aren’t heeded. Beau smells good enough, feels good enough, that his weird assessments of when and how to speak don’t much matter. “Open your pants.” A beat. “Open your pants for me.”

The first instruction was effective, but the addendum adds speed and enough excitement to have Beau tripping over his own fucking fingers like he’s new to his own clothes. Ends up getting himself free at about the same pace as he otherwise would have, but the reaction is what matters. Breath picking up, chest shuddering a little harder; so much escalation just from two little words. It begs the question whether he’d even been fucked by a man before Arthur.

Which, Danse remembers, is still itself a question begged and yet unanswered, not technically. Can’t have that. As soon as Victor can get his hands on Beau’s cock, he shoves a palm against it, pressing it up against his bush and his navel.

“Has Arthur Morgan fucked you, Beau Gray? Have you gotten that deputy’s cock inside you yet, or are you just a starry-eyed little coxcomb hurting for a man who hasn’t had you?”

Something like an agonized whine creeps its way from Beau’s collarbone to his mouth. Victor jerks his head up, which knocks their jaws together, but he kisses the area of impact on the young heir’s face and waits. For this question, he could wait forever. Moving too much could send Beau down a path unfriendly to cogency, so Danse is careful to keep his hand still on the idiot’s crotch.

“H-he—yes, I’ve... we’ve... yes.”

Beau doesn’t sound proud. There’s a nick of fear, but the heaviness in his tone is confusion and what must be compassion, though misplaced. Any kindness from this man is uninvited. Unwanted, unnecessary. Extraneous. Danse doesn’t want his fucking compassion.

It’s not Beau’s fault, though. Not his fault that Arthur is a horseshit waste of time and space. This oblivious little waif isn’t to blame. But now that he has confirmation of his suspicions, Danse can indulge in being a little bit of a horseshit waste himself.

“Tell me what Arthur’s done with you,” he insists, and grabs Beau’s chin to take his mouth in a kiss. It’s not violent, per se, but it’s not considerate, either. Still, the boy reacts to it like it’s a gift, tosses his arms around Danse’s neck, even lifts himself to the balls of his feet to get closer. That rubs his cock against the outlaw’s palm, and his groan climbs into Victor’s mouth and treads heavy on his tongue.

When he does separate them, there rings a wet and sharp noise that does not belong in a church. Good thing they’re sinning in a pile of meaningless rubble, then. “Tell me,” he repeats, and sinks to his knees. Five seconds is all it takes to pluck Beau’s foot from his shoe and out the leg of his trousers. Freed up, no longer bound by fabric. Danse stares up at the Gray again. “Tell me.”

Beau exhales so hard that Victor thinks he might be angry, but unsteady hands find his hair in the dark and pet a murderer like he’s a dog. Bizarre individual. Nice dick, though.

(After so long deprived of all contact with any cock at all, Danse supposes any dick could seem nice, but this one really is; it feels nice, smells nice, looks nice. Nothing life-changing, but certainly nice.)

Once he’s gotten his nose in the space between Beau’s thigh and his sac, the younger man’s nails sink into his scalp and Victor smiles. The stinging tastes like triumph. “Tell me, Beau, or I’ll leave you here without a ride home.” He wouldn’t. Maybe he’d have the willpower to put a stop what they’re doing, but Danse couldn’t leave him far from home in the middle of the night.

Aversion to being cruel to desperate young men is what sets him apart from Arthur.

“I—he has, um, we have lain with one another—”

“Be fucking specific, Mister Gray. And put your foot on my shoulder.” Danse hasn’t had the privilege of eating a well-washed hole in too long. While he has the chance, he’s going to enjoy every available inch of this man who has a sweet tooth for danger and not the slightest hint of sense. Arthur fucking Morgan has denied every offer, every request, every desperate plea from Danse to touch him—keeping his body far even when it is so close neither of them are built to withstand the heat.

Victor cannot take it anymore, can’t accept the hellishness of being rejected. Under his hands in this moment, though, there is a strange but kind young man with a nice cock whose desire is so unburdened it stinks in his sweat. Right now, Arthur doesn’t need to matter. Maybe he won’t need to matter ever again. That would be divine.

It would take a far stronger man than either of them to keep a poised grip on language when a glob of spit lands on their asshole, followed by the wide heft and wet heat of a tongue. Danse does not begrudge Beau his hesitation, nor the blubbering gasp that delays his reply further. But then, it comes.

“Not that. He hasn’t done that. This.” Shameful. All the more for Danse, though. “We have—ah!—used our mouths on each other, on... each of us on our knees. We have made love in an old barn on our property. In these trenches, one night. And—” The Gray boy grunts, puts more of his weight onto Victor via his shoulder. “Also made love in my bedroom, which was, ah, risky, but... it went beautifully. Arthur is an excellent climber.”

Only a fool would think Arthur Morgan capable of love, but the bookish elite is entitled to his fancies. Refuting it would probably make the sensitive little thing start crying or something equally grotesque, and then they’d have to stop. Upon hearing that Arthur has climbed into a mansion window like a character in one of Mary-Beth’s books to give Beau Gray something that he denies Danse, the snaking tunnels inside Victor’s body become tight and violent around his gut. The boy is practically a stranger, an outsider at the very least.

Beau certainly hasn’t put himself in harm’s way by betraying old comrades to save Arthur’s life.

Nothing about this world is fair, and Danse knows that better than most. Nobody deserves anything, least of all someone like him. Even if he weren’t an outlaw, even if he weren’t a killer and a thief, he’d be damned for his desires. But it can’t be true that Beau deserves Arthur more than he does. Saving someone’s life doesn’t entitle anyone to anything, and it would make Danse ill to even think of it as a transaction, but it should at the very least shield him from being strung along like a goddamn toy. It should entitle him to some fucking honesty.

“Victor?”

Oh, that’s nice. His name hits better when there’s an ounce of respect behind it, however misplaced. Not saturated with derision, but eager and sweet. Angry and bitter as he is, Danse is not too proud to acknowledge he can see the appeal of Beau Gray. It’s been so long since someone so openly desired him, to the point of making his name a request in itself.

Beau Gray is nothing like Arthur. Frankly, though, that is precisely what Danse needs. Yes, it may not be Victor’s first aesthetic preference—he likes men as hardy as he is, not waifs—but it’s the first time in a while that he’s felt like he has much control. In fact, with Beau, Danse has just about as much control as he could ever want, and the pretty would-be poet with the nice teeth and the plantation inheritance likes it just fine that way.

“Good,” Victor finally replies, and takes some of that pale thigh in his teeth. Apparently that’s good, too; so good that Beau’s foot shifts forward and nearly slides off. “Do you like getting fucked, Beau?” Following another broad lick over the young man’s hole, he brings the pad of his thumb to smudge the wetness left and right. There’s no weight behind it, no intention to intrude unbidden.

The reaction alone is enough to answer his question—the man’s groan tumbles in pitch until it is warm and rattling and lives primarily in the depths of his gut. Interesting. Still, a poet of such esteemed caliber is inclined to answer properly, and Beau is not one to turn his back on eloquence. Not yet, anyway.

“Yes, I do, I had never—it’s new. And enjoyable. Arthur—Deputy Morgan, he’s—”

“I don’t wanna hear about Arthur Morgan anymore, Beau. In fact,” asserts Danse, and every word has teeth or tongue or both to separate them, and each of those pauses is louder for the hissing and the cursing above, “when I’m through with you, young Mister Gray, I don’t think you’ll have much to say about him at all.” All that desperation will be focused on Victor, instead. Taking something from Arthur by way of being better than him, more impressive, more pleasurable, feels just. Taking this young man’s interest away from Arthur and hoarding it for himself is a handsome, if hollow, salve for his own anguish.

“Christ above,” the Gray breathes, and leans his ankle against Victor’s jaw. Pliant and eager and wanting, and all for Danse. It sweeps away the clutter between his ears until there is enough space for this shadow of fulfillment to settle into a new corner of this horrid place. It crackles under his fingernails, yawns awake, the devastation of being desired. There is nothing Danse wants more than to keep it. And to keep it, he has to excel.

That’s doable.

Calloused fingers make new homes for themselves on the underside of Beau’s thigh, in case unsteadiness dislodges the foot from Danse’s shoulder. The harder he squeezes, the louder Beau gets—until he has to remind him that by doing this together, they’re risking being hanged, so if he could do them both a favor and keep it down, that would be just swell.

“Sorry, Victor,” Beau wheezes, and repeats Danse’s name more quietly, and then again, down to a whisper. The weight of the Gray’s cock on his hairline changes, and knuckles brush his scalp when the kid grabs his shaft. “Victor,” he says again, and Danse can feel him squeeze himself. Just having a man’s name in his mouth makes Beau desperate.

If he didn’t know better, Danse would suspect Arthur had not left for a hunting trip at all, and had instead been fucking Beau Gray into pieces for the past three days nonstop, because when he actually pushes his thumb up and inside, the young man is not the kind of tight that he should be. So, either Arthur is a liar (news to no one), or the refined gentleman keeps himself busy on his own time. Either way, it has Danse’s erection keenly aware of the uncomfortable convent of his pants.

Spit and a couple fingers don’t make for ideal circumstances if Danse wants to make himself quite literally unparalleled. His pathetic pining for Arthur comes in handy now, at least, with an unopened bottle of slick oil in his satchel. Something like poetic justice to use it with someone else. “If you like getting fucked, I can do that for you. Would you like that, Beau? Get fingered open and filled properly?”

“Yes! Yes, Victor, I would.” This time, he remembers how dangerous his volume is, and Danse has never heard so much insistence in a whisper. There it is: greed. Christ, it’s like listening to an echo of his own goddamn words, so many times in lonely barns and campsites. Not the same, though, because Beau’s pleas hit human ears instead of a brick wall, and they are not received as an invitation to senseless cruelty through the torture of “maybe.”

“Feet on the ground for a minute, Gray.” Patting the young man’s knee approvingly when he obeys, Danse stands up and redirects all his wherewithal to unclasp his suspenders, open his pants, and tug his boots off. There’s rubble everywhere, but he’s got socks, and some discomforts are worth risking. A stubbed toe is an immeasurably small concern when held up alongside the chance to make someone else stupid with want, the chance to fill his mouth with cock for the first time in goddamn years.

The chance to take something from Arthur, as sick as it is.

Birth is an individual accident for everyone sorry enough to have to walk this rock, and it is obviously not Beau’s fault that he was born to money. Still, it makes it a whole hell of a lot easier for Danse to feel comfortable using him as something of a pawn. That’s what the wealthy do to the whole goddamn world, no matter how many poetry books they covet. And it’s not like pulling orgasms from the poor little rich boy until he is dry and breathless is mistreating him. Everyone wins, except Arthur Morgan, who will return to a boy toy no longer interested in him, and that feels right no matter what the good book might say.

Leave turning the other cheek to people who aren’t predestined to damnation for their deviancy. Leave turning the other cheek to fucking Jesus himself.

Movement ejects Danse’s attention from inside his head and back where it belongs, at the tips of his fingers and in the flat of his palms. Ten and two catch Beau’s shoulders before he can finish stepping away from the wall. Instead, Victor ushers him backward and rids them of all that bothersome space between their bodies.

“Going somewhere, Mister Gray?”

Brows knit tight in a frown, Beau scoffs. “I wanted to help you with your shirt.”

Hungry enough to not even know he’s a flatterer, then. Divine. “You want me all bare for you, then?” Dropping his hands to the dip in Beau’s hipbone, Danse’s thumbs dig into the skin where it is softest, and he ducks down to kiss his neck. Nothing like feeling the lump in a man’s throat pull at his lips when he’s earned vocal approval.

“In fact, yes. I’d like to see the man I’ll be sleeping with.” Sleeping together? No fool is half a fool, it seems. Nonetheless, it wraps quiet and firm around them, that request, and hunts through Victor’s mind until it finds more vulnerable parts of him. Vanity, namely. It feels as foreign as it should, for how little it emerges. Something about a younger, wealthier man risking not just his silver spoon but death itself just to see Danse’s body shifts the tone.

Grabbing those pale wrists, Victor plants them at the hem of his shirt, and murmurs into Beau’s neck, “Go on, then, Gray.”

The way he breathes short and swallows dry shoves his Adam’s apple into Danse’s teeth. These buttons are simple, and Beau still struggles from shaking. Flattering, yes. Inefficient, also yes. Still, Victor will permit the moments of humility to sink beneath Beau’s fingers and up towards his chest. They’ve got plenty of darkness left to waste.

There remains a hard cock down there that has not yet been in Danse’s mouth, though, and that won’t do. So he bumps his fingers into and between Beau’s and finishes the job, tells all that clean skin that it’s good. “Good,” he repeats, and Beau swallows and nods.

Away from the rich boy he goes, to stand back and pull the sleeves from his arms, bare to the dim almost-moon, bare to the heavens he has no right to think about, and Beau stays pressed to the wall but his hand reaches out for a shoulder. Danse is busy looking at his dick, but he can hear the wet crackle of words starting and failing to form. He could wait for Beau to find his voice.

Or not.

Not waiting tastes like dick, and dick tastes better than listening to whatever purple prose that tongue is loading up for launch. So he re-enters Beau’s space, bites his lip on a kiss, grabs the pretty young man’s cock. Tight.

“Gonna put this cock of yours in my mouth, Gray. Hm?” It’s not an announcement. It’s a question. Danse needs to ask this question and he needs to be told yes. He needs it. Years are too long lonely and these past months have felt even longer, even lonelier, with “no” after “no” after “no.” He needs to ask. He needs to hear a “yes.”

“Yes,” breathes Beau, eyes cast down to the hand on his dick and the thumb beneath his cockhead. Polite society born and raised, but too base to remember his manners and look at a man when speaking with him. At this rate, all this unintentional ego-stroking is likely to become unhealthy. “Please, yes.” Definitely unhealthy.

Not worth stopping, though.

Danse does not recall actually stepping back to get on his knees, nor if he said anything in response. Whatever came between “Please, yes” (and oh Christ, that’s bound to be in his ears indefinitely) and finally getting his tongue on that cock can’t have mattered much.

Once he’s started, it’s as freeing as it should be. Danse presses his hand down to the base of Beau’s cock to give himself room to taste. Frankly, he’s a little impressed with his own restraint, taking the time to lick the rich boy’s cock before stuffing his cheeks with it. The sliver of logic left alive in his brain reminded him that he will regret it if he doesn’t. Greed begets haste, which begets an unreliable and unsatisfying memory.

And Danse will need this memory.

The stutters above fall to quiet once Beau gets used to Victor’s tongue riding his skin base to tip, and Danse even takes a moment to look up when he’s sliding that nice dark cockhead over his tongue, back and forth.

Beau isn’t looking down at him. Instead he’s got his cheek crushed to crumbled church walls and his eyes shut tight.

That’s just as well, honestly.

One more trip from the soft skin beneath his shaft to the ridge of the tip, and then Danse takes what he’s wanted. Downgrades to just his index finger and thumb around Beau’s cock to keep him stable, and then takes that nice dick into his mouth properly. Heavy and hot and firm, and filling, just like it should be. Victor closes his eyes and seizes more, leaning forward until the tip nudges just the edge of his throat.

The Gray boy has become an entire mess, needs to be told to keep his fucking voice down again. Which means an empty mouth. Which means Victor is a little bit more irritable. “You shut up, Beau Gray, or I will put my socks in your mouth. Hear me?”

A terribly undignified squeak from above peeks out, but is cut short. So the fool does have discipline. Maybe that fiance of his keeps him in line. “Yes,” comes the whisper, bumpy on a stutter.

Yes. All yes, here. Yes.

“That’s right,” Danse replies, brusque and annoyed, once he remembers he should. “Stay quiet for me.” And there it is again, the tense and release on “for me.” Pretty thing has preferences. Victor does, too. He prefers to have cock in his mouth uninterrupted by foolishness.

Before he dives back on, he waits a beat or two, until Beau opens his eyes and grunts behind closed lips, nudges his hips forward. “Gonna be smart and keep that voice of yours down?” Beau nods instead of speaking, and while Danse would certainly like another yes, he’ll swallow plenty of those while he’s fucking the Gray boy into even deeper idiocy.

Satisfied, Victor sets things to right, gets his mouth back where he needs it. This time, he goes further, faster. Hitting his throat quicker makes him drool more, and wet noises leave his mouth with the hanging strands of spit. It feels bigger than it looked, and that’s brilliant. Every now and then, he slides back to suck just past the tip, burrow that cock into his cheeks. Beau’s still not looking, but he probably would fail to appreciate it anyway. It’s not for Beau. It’s for Danse.

Pulling off to breathe doesn’t mean stopping—can’t mean stopping, nothing could, because now that Danse actually has a man’s dick to appreciate, he won’t be letting go so easily. Instead, he holds Beau’s cock up against his navel like before and slurps at his balls, lifts them on his tongue and lets them fall back down. Freshly washed, like wealthy boys always are, but he still smells like cocksweat. It’s been so fucking long since Danse has tasted a man’s sack, and he gets hair in his mouth, and he does not care.

He promised to fuck the Gray, and he will. Eat his ass first, obviously. A well-kept, clean hole is a rare and special thing and he does not plan to waste it. He needs that cock again first, though. So Danse lets go, allows Beau’s dick to bounce back down, opens his mouth to catch it on his lips when it does.

Beau Gray is unlikely to fuck his throat the way it should be fucked, but Victor can pick up the slack just fine. So this time, he does not stop at the edge of his throat, does not stop at a gurgled cough; he takes his hand away from the base of Beau’s dick and holds his ass instead, keeps him nice and stable, and then he fills his throat with cock.

He cannot breathe properly, because it’s been so fucking long that he’s forgotten how to reroute air through his nose, but he cannot care, and he cannot stop. Instead, Danse stabs himself on the pretty rich boy’s nice dick and holds him still and chokes as much as he wants. As much as he’s needed to.

There’s quite a bit of choking.

Once he’s made the back of his soft palate near raw, he finally pulls off, coughs, spits. Hacks again and spits again, thicker this time. Beau is in a crisis up above him, biting his own hand so hard it’s causing shudders. Whatever keeps his mouth shut, Danse doesn’t care.

Then, he lets go to pant shallow and weak, and the teeth marks on that hand look more painful than what Victor had assumed Beau could handle.

“V-Victor—”

Never count your goddamn chickens.

“Quiet and put your foot on my shoulder again. Gonna eat that sweet hole you got. Hold these out of the way,” Danse says, tapping Beau’s ballsack from below with two fingers.

Beau does as he is told like a good little heir, cooing quietly when Victor says, “Good.”

A nice, clean hole is incomparable. Danse gets his thumb in there all wet and easy and there is a noise that is not loud, nor intrusive, but it is needful. What a fine, well-raised young man, politely moaning to get railed in the tattered memory of a place of God.

Next time, Danse will spend more time between those cheeks. This time, he can stand cutting it short, adding oil to the mix, keeping his mouth occupied by biting Beau’s thigh while he jams fingers inside him to the knuckle.

Leaning away from the teeth marks he left, darker than the ones Beau made himself, Victor stares at him until the handsome young man looks down. His chest heaves and his lips are parted, but no sound.

“Do you want to get fucked, Beau Gray?” Another question. A taller ask, this time, or at least it feels like one.

Vigorous nodding is not enough, though Beau provides plenty. Danse needs to hear it. Again. Climbing to his feet until he is once again looking down at the fool instead of the other way around, Victor sends his nose past his temple and into his hair. When his lips find Beau’s ear, he asks again.

“Do you want me to fuck you right, Mister Gray?”

Like a burst dam, the rich boy’s mouth falls open only to be cluttered and speak in circles. “Yes, yes, Victor, please, yes, I—very much, yes. Very much.” The clutter softens and stops, and then, in the shadow of a whisper, Beau adds, “Fuck me, yes.”

It takes a second to register that he has made this young man, polite and mannered and soft-hearted, say filth, even just as an echo. Once it does, Danse’s head is lighter for the confidence and his dick is harder for how diligently his brain has catalogued the sight of that pretty mouth wrapping around that word.

The rest is quick. Jerk his cock with the slick oil, half-effort good enough, pick the waif’s leg up, give him what he’s asked for.

It’s only fair, since Beau has given Danse exactly what he’s needed.

Beau is a pliant and sensitive thing and he is light enough to pick up and brace against the wall. There will be scratches from the broken walls, but no objection sounds from that mouth. Instead, just “yes.” Over and over. Every time Danse bottoms out, every time he pulls himself free, it’s chatter and it’s meaningless but it means everything.

Huffing breath from his nose, Danse presses his forehead to Beau’s brow and crushes their mouths together. Uneven, badly aligned, but it does not stop that one word slung again and again, now into Victor’s cheek instead of the musty Lemoyne air. The word keeps coming. That’s the important part.

Gritting his teeth and grunting low and harsh, Beau grips his cock and jacks himself just at the tip until his chest goes tight and he rattles while he cums.

“Not done,” says Victor. The words hang almost slow when they slide into Beau’s mouth. “Want to stop? Or keep going?” That nice, clean hole is ever tighter and the young man’s tensed thighs make for even more pressure on his cock.

“N-no,” Beau breathes. “Rather, um. Yes, yes, the—keep going, you can, yes. And you—if you desire, you c-can—”

“Finish in you?” Danse smiles, takes a breath, sets his teeth into Beau’s lip again. “Next time.”

“Yes,” Beau hisses, and maybe he is only half a fool after all, because he keeps saying it. “Yes, Victor, y-yes,” and on and on.

Danse is a simple man. Even under the constant stress of knowing he is nothing to Arthur, knowing this is not really what he wants, he is just a humble servant to his base desires, as are all men. Fucking a handsome young man with pleas in his ears and the taste of cock on his tongue, it’s only so long before he pulls out, grips his cock, lets the mess land between Beau’s belly and his own fingers.

By some small miracle, Beau joins Danse in silence without any prompting. They both end up sitting in the grass beneath half of a bare windowframe and Beau is about to wipe his hand on the stone when Victor grabs his wrist, holds it up, bites the side just like Beau did. Licks some of the Gray’s cum up, once he’s free.

“Let you do that in my mouth, next time. If’n you want that.”

And then, that lovely, pristine word.

“Yes.”


End file.
